


All I Ever Wanted

by vivilove



Series: Historical AUs [10]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, Angst with a Happy Ending, Catholic Guilt, F/M, Forbidden Love, Jon and Sansa are Cousins, Late 1800s, Loss of Virginity, Mutual Pining, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-19
Updated: 2019-07-19
Packaged: 2020-07-08 07:08:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,480
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19865527
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vivilove/pseuds/vivilove
Summary: “It’s not completely blank, mind you. My mama wrote this inside.” He opens the journal and in an elegant hand one sentence is written :  Twenty years from now you will be more disappointed by the things you did not do than by the things you did.“Those are profound words, Jon.”“Well, it is Sunday. A good day for the profound, your priest would likely say.”She doesn’t wish to dwell on what the priest might say. She wants Jon’s opinion instead. “What was your mama’s intent with those words, do you suppose?”“To live, sweet cousin.  To live until we die.”





	All I Ever Wanted

**Author's Note:**

  * For [mynameisnoneya](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mynameisnoneya/gifts).



> I was looking through some drafts of things I've half started over the past couple of years and ran across this idea that I'd had after a discussion with mynameisnoneya about the western 'Tombstone' last year. I've borrowed a quote from it at the start but this has a happy ending unlike Doc Holliday's rumored romance with his cousin Mattie in his youth. 
> 
> The quote 'Twenty years from now...' within in the fic is often credited to Mark Twain but since there is much doubt about whether Mr. Twain actually said it, I've not mentioned him in the story. 
> 
> I adore historical fiction so I hope some of you will enjoy this at least :)

_“I was in love once, my first cousin… She was all I ever wanted.”_

-John Henry ‘Doc’ Holliday, _Tombstone_

**Wilmington, Delaware**

**Summer 1888**

The beads of sweat roll down her neck into the collar of her dress as bothersome as mosquitos. The collar is not nearly so crisp as it was before mass this morning.

She glances up from her task to see her cousin Jon Snow making his way along the walk, having returned from a trip into town. He’s carrying a leather-bound book and a small paper bag.

“Good afternoon, Cousin Sansa. May I sit with you?”

She feels a flush rising that has little to do with the warmth of the day. He is far too handsome for the peacefulness of her mind and Christian thoughts on a Sunday. She nods her assent.

A light breeze stirs on the front porch, a welcome relief from the heat of Delaware in July, almost as welcome as her companion. She wonders if he’s as lonely here as she feels most of the time. Probably more so as his presence is not wanted in this house in the least save by herself.

“What are you reading?” she asks, pointing to his book.

“I’m not.” She lifts her eyebrows in curiosity. “It’s not a book. It’s a journal. My mother gave it to me before she passed saying I could write down thoughts or what have you within it.”

She grimaces to think of poor Aunt Lyanna but focuses on the journal. “That’s a fascinating idea. What have you written about?”

A rare smile flashes and it lights up his face. He’s twenty now. She’d not thought him nearly so handsome when they were younger.

“Me? Why, I’ve written nothing at all, I’m sorry to say. I’ve just taken to carrying it around in my pocket and feel at a loss if I don’t have it.”

She covers her mouth to stifle her laughter, afraid of offending him. But when his eyes crinkle up and he starts laughing, she lets hers go as well. They are a pair of ninnies to sit on the front porch laughing over a blank journal perhaps but she feels lighter than she has since she first arrived here in May.

“It’s not completely blank, mind you. My mama wrote this inside.” He opens the journal and in an elegant hand one sentence is written: _Twenty years from now you will be more disappointed by the things you did not do than by the things you did._

“Those are profound words, Jon.”

“Well, it is Sunday. A good day for the profound, your priest would likely say.”

She doesn’t wish to dwell on what the priest might say. She wants Jon’s opinion instead. “What was your mama’s intent with those words, do you suppose?”

“To live, sweet cousin, to live until we die.”

His poor mama had done that though she’d perished young. Life with a dissolute gambler had driven her to liking her laudanum too much and then consumption had claimed her when Jon was thirteen.

Sansa doesn’t wish to dwell on those sad thoughts either. “What’s in the bag? Or will you tell me it’s actually empty?”

He smirks at her and she feels a rush of something shoot through her. “Lemon drops.”

Her mouth begins to salivate at the thought of her favorite candy. “Robin does not care for lemon drops.”

“I didn’t buy them for him. I bought them for you.”

She gasps though she shouldn’t. It is only penny candies and Jon is only being kind. Still, her blue eyes lock with his stormy grey ones and several seconds pass before she can muster a ‘thank you.’

She returns to her task but can feel his eyes upon her. She minds her needlework. In and out, it passes through Robin’s torn shirt. It would not be seemly to sit and stare back at him, no matter how much she might like to. The servants are always about.

“Did you enjoy mass today, cousin?” he drawls, the hint of his time in Georgia after his mama’s death flavoring the words, making them thick and rich like molasses.

“I did. You should’ve joined us.”

He scoffs and she feels her already warm face grow hotter. “I doubt a Protestant heathen like me would be very welcome.”

Her father had been a Protestant too before converting for the woman he loved. Their children had all been raised Catholic.

Sansa bites her tongue before she can say he’d be very welcome by her. She is not the Church and he’s not remotely interested in attending services regardless. She’s decided that Jon is a good man all the same. But, Aunt Lysa whispers that he has some of his daddy’s madness and his mama’s wildness in him. Sansa’s been told not to get too close while he’s visiting. Does sitting next to each other on the porch count? She decides it doesn’t.

She’s been staying with her Aunt Lysa since spring. Her aunt had been poorly along with her younger cousin. Aunt Lysa’s new husband Mr. Baelish says his talents do not lie with nursing the sick so Mama had asked if she’d mind going to help. She’d agreed thinking it might be nice to have an adventure of sorts now that she’s seventeen and travel by train to a place she’s never been. But to be honest, she doesn’t care much for it here. She will never tell her mother that. She wants to please her mother, not burden her with her selfish wants.

But two weeks ago, Daddy had sent a letter saying that her cousin Jon Snow would be coming to Wilmington to deal with an issue at one of their factories and would likely visit. She wonders how Mama ever got Aunt Lysa to extend an invitation for Jon to stay with them rather than in a rented room somewhere. Her aunt doesn’t seem remotely pleased about him being there with them for the next five weeks but Sansa is happy. She’s not seen Jon in nearly six years.

He’s quieter than most young men his age but he’s a vast improvement over Aunt Lysa. She prefers Jon’s company over Robin’s frequent tantrums or Uncle Petyr’s clever words and strange humors, too.

Caught up in her reflections, her needle slips and she hisses from the pain. A drop of blood wells up and she searches for a handkerchief to staunch the flow and keep it off Robin’s good shirt.

Before she can find hers, Jon has pressed his to the wound, such a tiny little wound. She finds herself gazing into those eyes again and she shivers at how intently he’s looking at her. His hands are warm and the skin is rough where they hold her fingers. She’d swear she can feel her heartbeat in her fingertips where he’s touching her and wonders if he can. She wonders what those warm hands would feel like upon her chin or cheek.

She’s out of breath and all she’s doing is sitting here. Even when Mr. Baratheon had courted her last fall, before Daddy had announced he was not in favor of any match, she had never felt quite so flustered. What is the matter with her?

“Thank you,” she says softly when he lets go and sits back down.

“It was nothing,” he replies in a voice that is not nearly so steady as usual.

She doesn’t think it was nothing.

* * *

  
The meetings on the front porch become a daily event, one that he looks forward to more than is right. Every afternoon when he returns from the factory, he finds his cousin sitting on the front porch. He’d like to believe she waits especially for him.

He had heard she’d grown into a beauty. Even in the little hollow his daddy drug him off to after his final disgrace there are common acquaintances and gossip. He’d still not been prepared the first time he’d laid eyes on her after stepping off the train.

She’d had a parasol raised to protect her delicate ivory skin from the harsh summer sun but he’d stepped forward after being coolly greeted by his Aunt Catelyn’s sister and been welcomed into that smidgeon of shade by the brightest blue eyes he’d ever seen. Her fiery auburn hair had been neatly tucked away in a bun but not completely concealed by her pretty bonnet.

He’d stood there gaping for an unseemly amount of time, the pair of them grinning foolishly, until her aunt had cleared her throat meaningfully and he’d remembered his manners, sweeping his hat from his head again and bowing to the young lady before him, so grown up from the little girl he’d recalled.

She’s as fresh as the morning dew and he should feel shame over the thoughts that run through his mind when she tucks a stray strand of hair behind her ear or innocently licks her lips but every day, he finds himself more and more mesmerized by her.

She does not complain but he knows she is unhappy here. Uncle Ned had taken him aside when he’d answered his summons to Baltimore offering him a job, a better job than Jon had ever hoped to hold. He had asked him where he meant to stay in Wilmington and had suggested he could perhaps stay with Mr. and Mrs. Baelish.

_“I think Sansa would be pleased to have a visitor. And I will admit in your ear that I don’t much care for Mr. Baelish and it would please me to know someone was there to watch over her a bit before she comes back home.”_

He cannot say he cares for Mr. Baelish either, a scheming little man. He’s not fond of his shrewish wife either but he remains for Sansa. He’d buy a ticket to hell to remain with her.

_And what would you think of that, Uncle Ned?_

He shoves his guilt aside for what harm is there in two cousins sitting on the front porch, enjoying each other’s company in this otherwise dreary household? True, he has taken her hand in his more than once but only when they are speaking earnestly about something…and no one is nearby.

And they are cousins. She is a Catholic and cousin marriage if forbidden. On top of that, Sansa is the daughter of a prosperous man, one of the wealthiest and most respected men in Baltimore. And he is the son of a wretch with hardly a penny to his name. He ignores the grief he feels at that knowledge and tells himself nothing will come of him holding her hand.

But a stormy afternoon has driven them indoors today to the parlor and this feels dangerous somehow. Out on the porch where anyone could see, he feels in control of that impulse, that desire he feels for her. Indoors, he does not feel so confident.

Her posture is perfectly straight and her fingers glide deftly across the keys in the parlor. It's hypnotic and he wonders if it’s her talent and the melody or the ripples of living flame her hair reminds him of when she wears it down like it is right now that leaves him in an enchanted state.

The nocturne ends and her aunt is boorishly hollering from the next room that Beethoven is far too mournful and trying to her poor nerves.

“It’s Chopin,” Sansa mutters under her breath. Still, she dutifully chooses a hymnal next.

Though he is not a devout man by any means, the music is peaceful and he finds his head bobbing along to the refrain. She knows this music by heart, he thinks when he catches her glancing at him where he sits on the settee. He wishes she could come and sit beside him but that would not be proper when they are alone in here.

She seamlessly transitions to another piece and his head bobbing stops at once. The melody washes over him and he’s a boy of thirteen again, sobbing in the church until his father roughly pinches him, admonishing him not to embarrass him by behaving like a little girl.

Sansa must sense his distress for the music ends abruptly and he hears the piano bench scoot backwards. “Jon?”

“Forgive me. You play so beautifully but that piece was…my mother’s funeral.”

"Oh!” she cries, her eyes filled with sympathy and regret. He doesn’t wish for her to regret anything. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t know. I’ll…”

“No, Sansa. There's nothing to forgive.”

He can see she doubts him but she smiles tentatively and steps forward to embrace him. It’s just an embrace between family, comfort over his loss and the old pain.

 _That’s all this is_ , he tells his conscience as he responds, pulling her tightly to him.

His conscience does not believe it.

His fingers find their way into those auburn waves. It’s softer than anything he can name. She smells like rain and the rose-scented soap she uses. Nothing could be sweeter. He wonders if her tongue would taste tart and sweet like the lemon drops she covets.

Her cheek is pressed against his and, though he is no rake, he realizes this is much more akin to a lover’s embrace than one of familial comfort.

“Sansa?! What happened to the music?!” Aunt Lysa calls.

With wide eyes, they leap apart, both flushing, fearing that the parlor door will fly open at any second.

“Sorry, Aunt Lysa! The sheet music slipped from its place.”

Neither of them speak of what just occurred. She sits back down and selects another piece, something that will suit her aunt and will not stir unpleasant memories for him.

A heavy sense of sadness settles over him as she begins to play again. It has nothing to do with music. He wants her in his arms again when he shouldn’t. One look at her face tells him she wants the same.

* * *

  
Her favorite time of day has arrived at last and she brushes out her hair, eager to watch him come strolling up the walk from work and sit with her on the front porch until suppertime.

The other day, the day it had rained…she still gets quivery remembering it, the way it felt to be so close to Jon, the prickle of his beard against her cheek and the warmth of his breath on her skin. It is safer on the porch though part of her prays for another tempest.

She is a wicked girl. She should go to confession but she feels mortified at the very thought of confessing these thoughts and feelings to the parish priest. He is an uncommonly stern man and she has not known him all her life like Father Chayle back in Baltimore.

But it is not lust alone she feels. She loves him. Her heart aches at how she’s fallen in love with him. Doesn’t that mean anything? Even if he is her cousin and a Protestant, is it so awful that they should love each other?

She glides down the stairs as the clock strikes five and heads to the porch where she will take up her sewing and wait for Jon to arrive.

But her aunt is waiting for her today, seated in the rocking chair where Jon usually sits.

Sansa plasters on a smile. “Good afternoon, Aunt. It is good to see you up and about today.”

Her aunt does not respond to the courtesy. “I was thinking I might keep you and your cousin company for a bit this afternoon.”

“Oh, that’s…lovely,” she stammers, thinking nothing could be less lovely.

Her aunt’s blue eyes are closer together and a little beadier than her mother’s. They are also much colder when her aunt hisses, "The neighbors are all gossiping about how you and Jon Snow sit here together every afternoon as if you’re courting."

“He’s my cousin. We’re not doing anything but sitting and talking, aunt,” she fibs, knowing very well that holding hands and gazing into each other’s eyes was surely courting behavior.

"You are my responsibility while you’re under my roof and I will not tolerate you doing anything to damage your reputation. Wilmington is not Baltimore but words are like the wind sometimes, finding their way to eager ears.”

“We’re just…”

“He’s no fit match for you, Sansa. Even if you wanted to break your mother’s heart and abandon the faith to be with him, he will never be worthy husband material for you.”

Daydreams fill her mind at those word, images of them standing before an altar with their hands clasped, of loving embraces like the one they’d shared in the parlor, of kisses and other things which make her cheeks flame.

Her aunt must guess the nature of her thoughts. “And if he is not able to be your husband, there is only one thing that can come of this dalliance…your ruination and disgrace. You’d best think on that.”

“But we’ve not done…”

Aunt Lysa grasps her firmly by the chin. It hurts and her aunt’s breath is foul when she continues, “Don’t bring scandal into my home or to my family, girl. I won’t tolerate it.”

She nods meekly and Aunt Lysa lets go of her. She’s rubbing at her bruised chin long after her aunt has stalked back inside. Her eyes fill with tears when she sees him walking down the street. She flees back to her room before he reaches the gatepost. She sends word she is sick with a headache at suppertime.

* * *

  
“I love you,” he whispers fervently when he finally corners her two days later.

It’s been building up inside him for so long. He could not keep it to himself another moment.

She’s been avoiding him. Something had to have happened. He’d bet good money her aunt has said something. What would Uncle Ned say of this?

He’d only meant to talk to her, to ask what had changed but the moment he caught her between the clotheslines while everyone else is out of sight, he’d uttered those words, straight from his heart.

The breeze is fluttering the linens and her hair has come loose from its bun. He gently tucks a strand behind her ear and speaks the words that have been dying to come out. “I love you. I’m _in_ love with you, Sansa,” he stammers, not knowing what to make of her wince.

“You shouldn’t be.”

Shouldn’t be in love with her or shouldn’t be fixing her hair? She turns to pull away. He grasps her hand and tugs her to him. “Are you saying you feel nothing for me?”

Her eyes seek her feet and he knows she doesn’t want to lie nor does she want to admit anything. “I’m just saying I shouldn’t and you shouldn’t and…I have to go.”

The backdoor opens and he curses whoever has come to interrupt them. Sansa leaves him standing there, fighting back angry tears while he wishes he’d never come to Wilmington if it is only going to leave him heartbroken.

Three more days pass. The porch is unoccupied and the piano is silent in the parlor.

Mr. Baelish has invited Mr. Harrold Hardyng home for supper tonight and seems inordinately pleased when he seats the young man next to Sansa.

Jon methodically chews his beefsteak and wonders what they would all do if he drove his knife into Mr. Hardyng’s chest. He shakes his head at the murderous thought. What is the matter with him?

He tries not to glare at Mr. Baelish’s guest. He tries not to stare at her like a lovesick boy but he supposes that is precisely what he is. He’d imagined himself a man being sent by Uncle Ned to oversee the factory they’d opened in Wilmington and being charged with looking after Sansa. Instead of looking after her, he can only look at her with longing…and despair.

He hates the Church. He hates God if He would call their love a sin. He thinks of Sansa’s pure soul and his dear mother in the next instant though and prays for forgiveness.

Sansa smiles and speaks amiably with Mr. Hardyng and he loathes every second of it. He imagines sitting in the parlor after dinner and being forced to make conversation while Sansa is instructed to entertain them all. She’ll do her duty. She’s always been a dutiful girl. Mr. Baelish is hoping to arrange a match for her but she’ll return to Baltimore before long, he tells himself. He hopes so. He can’t abide the thought of her playing nocturnes or hymnals for Harrold Hardyng in the evenings or being held in his arms.

_And then what? Uncle Ned and Aunt Catelyn will be guiding her to make a match there._

“Excuse me, I’m…”

He pushes back from the table, fumbling for a plausible reason for leaving in the middle of dinner. Sansa is staring at him, her mouth open and look of horror upon her face. Does she think he means to expose something? What would he expose?

He’ll sound like an uncouth bumpkin leaving in the midst of dinner. They think he is anyway. He doesn’t care. If he stays one more minute, he’ll choke on the beefsteak since he cannot swallow another bite past the lump in his throat or he’ll commit murder. He’ll take looking uncouth over those options.

Luckily, Robin takes the opportunity to cry out against the rutabagas and parsnips he says taste like dirt and a tantrum follows much to Mr. Baelish’s consternation.

He exits the dining room and climbs the stairs to his bedroom, lying down upon the bed, still fully dressed. He thinks he might weep but instead he falls into a troubled sleep.

There’s a quiet knocking on his door much later. It's near midnight, he thinks. He knows it’s her but answering will do neither of them any good so he rolls over and ignores the knock, his heart thudding dully in his chest long after her footsteps have faded away.

* * *

  
Ever since she was a child, Sansa’s always been a dutiful daughter; strong in her faith, eager to please and mindful of the role she’s expected to fill someday, the only role that’s acceptable for a young lady like herself.

But everything has changed in the month Jon has been here and she’s not sure she wants to be that girl anymore.

Mr. Hardyng is charming but she’s heard whispers. Her brother’s warned her about his sort. He’s no Joffrey but no matter how much he stands to inherit someday, she’d rather die a spinster than be a rich man’s obedient wife, smiling at church on Sundays after wondering where her husband had been so late the previous night when he comes home smelling of whiskey and exotic perfumes.

She’s been afraid to be alone with Jon since Aunt Lysa’s warning, knowing in her heart that she loves him. What would that mean to love Jon openly? Would her parents ever understand or forgive them? Could God truly condemn them for loving each other this way?

She closes her eyes, recalling the smell of honeysuckle and the buzzing of bees as the bed linens flapped in the breeze and he’d exposed his heart and waited for her response.

_“I love you. I'm in love with you, Sansa.”_

_“You shouldn’t be.”_

She wipes her eyes and thinks herself the cruelest of women.

And now it is Jon who avoids her, Jon who will be leaving on the train in the morning to New York where her father has asked him to travel to next on business. He’d mentioned being there a month or more and then where will he go next?

_Somewhere without me._

She’s sick at the thought. She’ll be going home too in another week. Aunt Lysa is better and though Mr. Baelish and her are trying to talk her into staying, she demurs and says she misses her mother. She does miss her mother but that is not why she’ll be eager to leave. Without Jon here, there is nothing. Without Jon…there is nothing. Will her family fill that gaping hole? Will her faith? Will anything?

The Liturgy of the Eucharist has begun and she cannot breathe. The priest and his words, the collar of her dress, her corset, the eyes of Mr. Hardyng upon her as he sits with his great-aunt and benefactor, and her own aunt beside her who hums quietly under her breath during the reading will not let her breathe, will not let her live.

_Twenty years from now you will be more disappointed by the things you did not do than by the things you did._

_“To live, sweet cousin, to live until we die.”_

“I’m feeling unwell, Aunt.” It is not a lie.

She does not wait for a reply but feels the eyes of the congregation upon her as she hurries out the door. What must they think? She does not care.

She stands alone in the vestibule, unbuttoning the very top button of her dress. Her aunt would declare her vulgar. Nine tenths of the world would never notice. They must all be vulgar, too. She’d rather be vulgar than choke to death.

She sucks in several deep breaths but it is not enough. She waits to be sure her aunt or Mr. Hardyng will not follow her. Mr. Baelish rarely attends mass, claiming his business keeps him too busy. He won’t be home. The servants have this morning free. With any luck, no one will be at the house now…no one except Jon.

* * *

Sansa raises her hand to knock upon his bedroom door but she remembers how he never responded to her the night before last. A madness takes hold and she tries the handle, expecting it to be locked and wondering if that will leave her more relieved or frustrated.

It is not locked.

She steels herself with a deep breath, planning to apologize for her brashness first, and pushes the door open, her heart pounding in her chest. It does not prepare her for the sight that meets her eyes.

Jon is bathing.

For one half a heartbeat, her eyes take in his smooth shoulders, muscled arms and pale broad chest with its sprinkling of dark hair that disappears into the water. Her eyes shoot downward and then immediately back up to his face, his handsome face. His lips are parted in shock and his dark curls are wet and dripping.

They both yelp at the same time and if anyone had been at home, they would most certainly be discovered in this compromising position.

“Bleeding Christ,” he gulps and she’s fascinated by the way his throat bobs. What in Heaven’s name is wrong with her?!

“I’m sorry!” she screeches before lunging backwards towards the door.

She means to turn and go but she fails to, an enormous error on her part for apparently in his confusion and shock Jon has decided to stand up and reach for his towel.

Sansa watches and cannot avert her eyes from the sight of Jon’s body as the water slides off him right away.

“I love you, too!” she shouts towards the patch of dark hair surrounding his manhood just as he’s covering it with his towel.

She wishes the floor might open up and take her straight down to Hell since that is clearly where she is destined to wind up.

His lips quirk into a saucy grin and her cheeks are on fire. She shakes herself out of this wicked haze that has gripped her. She most certainly does not care about his strong calves and thighs or wonder what his backside looks like.

She spins and bolts, only injuring herself slightly when she runs smack into the doorframe. His laughter follows her as she races to her room and collapses upon her bed with a sob. But her sob is soon hysterical laughter that matches his own.

Fifteen minutes later, they are both dressed and sitting in the parlor, holding hands. He's so close now. She can see flecks of deep violet in the grey of his eyes. She’d never noticed that before.

His hands are warm and rough as they cup her face. She loves the way this feels.

Their first kiss is clumsy and unsure and they are grinning like children when they pull back from it. By the second, they are already finding their way and she thinks nothing could feel so right.

He’s pressed against her, that lean, hard body of his against her soft curves and she’s breathless in the best possible way, every nerve fully awake for the first time she believes in recognition of him. The feel of his lips on hers is a decadent thing, then the taste of his tongue in her mouth makes her needy as a primal heat sparks within.

His hold shifts until they are perfectly slotted together with her chest firmly against his now suitably covered body. She mewls into his mouth and his answering groan leaves her aching for more.

But Aunt Lysa will be returning or the servants will be soon. The clock has just struck noon.

“Come to my room tonight,” she whispers as their kisses trail off, dozens of gentle busses and pecks. She’s shocked at her bravado. Today seems to be a day of monumental movements on her part. _I will not regret the things I do_ , she tells herself.

“I…Sansa, I will not dishonor you.”

“No one will know.”

“ _We_ will know.” He clasps her hands and looks most earnest. “I want to marry you.”

Her heart flutters as she bites her lip and considers his words. He would marry her. Jon would marry her but they could not marry in the faith. She could not walk into her parish back in Baltimore and ask Father Chayle to make them man and wife.

And if she gives in to temptation and goes home in disgrace, what sort of life would that be? Daddy would never forgive Jon. He might not anyway. What if he got her with child like Harrold Hardyng has reputedly done to more than one poor girl? Would she be sent away to bear a bastard in secret on Uncle Benjen’s farm near Richmond perhaps, giving up the baby as a foundling and then sent to the convent to spend the rest of her life repenting?

That is no life for her. She doesn’t think it’s any life at all. But she still wants him. She loves him.

“Come to my room tonight…and take me with you tomorrow.”

“To New York?”

“Yes, to New York. We can marry there.”

“But your parents…”

Her eyes begin to cloud with tears and she does not wish for too much logic right now. “We will explain it later. Please, Jon. Or do you not wish to…”

He cuts her off with a kiss.

* * *

  
When she’d burst in upon his bath earlier, he’d thought he might be dreaming. And then her sweet kisses later left him feeling much the same, the sweet smell of Sansa, her blue eyes filled with desire.

He decides he might have wandered into a never ending dream as he creeps down the hall to her bedroom long after everyone else has turned in. He’s never noticed how damned creaky the floor is until now and each noise has his heart in his mouth, fearing discovery.

 _And if you’re discovered, so what?_ No one will stop them, he swears to himself.

He’d left to purchase another train ticket before supper and brought home a sack of lemon drops for Sansa and licorice whips for Robin. Sunday dinner was roasted pork and nervous, shared glances. Sansa’s aunt seemed unusually cheerful, likely pleased at the prospect of him leaving tomorrow. But Sansa is going with him. Her aunt just isn’t aware of it yet. Sansa said she’d leave her a note to explain and they could telegraph her parents.

He feels ill at the thought of Aunt Catelyn and Uncle Ned. They will be hurt and not understand, he worries. He hopes they will forgive them in time. He suspects Robb never will but perhaps he should borrow some of Sansa’s faith and hope.

He quietly enters her room and locks the door behind him. If she was slumbering when he entered, she’s not when he turns back around. Moonlight filters in from the window, bathing her in a silvery glow. She’s ethereal, lovely beyond words and she’s choosing to run away and be his wife. This is all certainly a dream.

“Sansa…are you sure about this?” He is not entirely. He has little experience and she has none at all.

She does not answer but lies back, holding her arms up to beckon him. She sighs when he pulls his nightshirt over his head. She’s trembling when he lays down beside her.

“It’s alright,” he says, hoping to reassure her, comfort her.

“Hold me for a little while?”

“Of course.”

He pulls her into his arms, up against his chest and brushes his lips upon her forehead then buries his nose in her silky soft hair. They hold each other and whisper sweet words for a time. But he is naked and she wears only a thin night rail. They are young and curious, in love but also filled with desires.

He cups her breast through the soft cotton and slowly rubs his thumb over her nipple. He can feel it harden into a pebble and she gasps as he leans forward, putting his mouth upon her. As he gently suckles, Sansa moans and arches her back. Those moans stir him into a fever pitch of longing.

He is hard and aching and she is writhing against him, begging him sweetly for more. He intends to give her all.

Their mouths crash together and he savors the sweetness of her tongue and the way her nails scrape desperately at his shoulders and back.

He roughly pulls her night rail over her head and his hands are busy exploring every inch of her ivory flesh, her full breasts and taunt stomach, the swell of her hips and the fire-kissed curls covering her mound. All of it is his tonight.

_And every night to come._

Her hands are just as busy, sliding along his chest and downward until she delicately wraps her hand around him. He whimpers and she lets go, no doubt uncertain of what that meant.

“I promise I like that,” he murmurs. “Touch me as much as you like.”

She does as his mouth seeks her other nipple and his hand finds the secret sweetness between her legs. She gasps when his finger strokes her and enters. She’s wet but a virgin. He will treat her gently and make this as pleasant for her as he can manage.

“Do you trust me, Sansa?”

“You know that I do.”

He slithers down the bed, kissing every inch of her body until he’s nestled between her thighs. He licks the folds of her womanhood and teases the little bud he finds there as she looks half-scandalized but fully aroused.

Soon she’s quaking beneath him, letting her pillow swallow her moans and cries. The next time they share a bed, he wants no pillows robbing him of those sounds.

Sansa bucks her hips as her legs shake and he knows she’s reached her peak as she spears her fingers wildly through his hair, tugging none too gently. If she winds up scalping him, he will not complain.

She’s dazedly humming when he climbs back up next to her and kisses her soundly.

“You tasted very sweet…sweeter than lemon drops.”

Even in the moonlight, he can picture her answering blush. They hold one another for a time as her heartbeat slows. He would be content with this tonight if she wants. She’s all he can picture ever wanting but he can wait until New York, until she is his bride if she likes.

But Sansa is not wishing to wait. She tugs at him, urging him on top of her. He will not refuse.

He tells himself he will not spill inside of her but he knows he may anyway.

He hovers over her, his body slick with sweat on the August night. But the window is open and he hears a nightingale. The night is theirs and every day after will be, too.

He nudges the head of his cock against her folds and slowly pushes his way inside. She’s wet and her sex is swollen with his earlier attentions but she is so very tight.

“I’m sorry if it hurts.”

She says nothing but grips his shoulders tightly. Once he’s fully inside, he can feel her relaxing. He tentatively thrusts and searches her face.

“It’s alright.”

He relishes the way her heat surrounds him so perfectly but he cannot bear staying still for long. Soon, they’re moving their hips, seeking a rhythm. It’s not long once they find it that he feels the tightening sensation and knows he’s very close.

“Sansa, I…”

 _I love you_ , he wanted to say but it ends with a shuddering groan.

He would be embarrassed except that she kisses him lightly and teasingly says, “I know.”

* * *

  
The lark is calling outside her window but they are not there. The servants are stirring but Mister Jon and Miss Sansa will not be coming down to breakfast. Her trunk and pretty dresses are gone. A letter rests upon her pillow.

Aunt Lysa will be outraged. She may curse her from here to eternity or never speak her name again. She doesn’t know nor does she care. Sweetrobin will probably call her naughty but he will laugh at least and eat up the licorice whips Jon brought him. She couldn’t care less what Mr. Baelish or Mr. Hardyng think.

But as the train pulls away from the station, she sheds some girlish tears, not for Aunt Lysa but her mother and father and brothers and sister back in Baltimore.

_What will they think? Will they forgive us? Can I ever go home again?_

Jon takes a handkerchief from his pocket and wipes away her tears. He kisses her hand and they nestle against each other as they leave Wilmington behind. He will be her husband and they will live their life. Twenty years from now she will not regret this choice, she tells herself.

She imagines composing her telegraph in New York.

_Dear Mama and Daddy:_

_I fell in love with Jon. I am a bride. Please, do not hate us. We are sorry if you are shocked by this news but he’s all I ever wanted._

_Sansa_


End file.
